The Wanderer and the New West

By Adam Bender

"Tight, literate pulp." -- IndieReader

A rogue vigilante known only as the Wanderer seeks redemption in a lawless, near-future America that fully protects the rights of armed citizens to stand their ground against mass shooters and motorcycle gangs.

When the Wanderer opens war against injustice in the state of Arizona, his violent yet principled actions attract the attention of journalist Rosa Veras, writer of a subversive blog about America's return to the Wild West. Rosa's investigation into gun corporation Breck Ammunition awakens the ire of CEO Gerard Breck ... and brings the Wanderer to her door.
Meanwhile in Liberty, ex-Sheriff Ben Martin attempts to return lawless to Rosa's hometown by forming a ragtag militia of ex-cops. Things start to unravel as Martin loses track of the difference between criminals and anyone who gets in his way.

Named to Kirkus Reviews' Best Books of 2018, The Wanderer and the New West won gold for Dystopia in the 2018 Readers' Favorite Awards and best Western Fiction in the 2018 National Indie Excellence Awards.

"A dystopian novel about an America ruled by gangs and gun manufacturers and about the brave few who are willing to fight them both ... A tight, thoughtful work that has much to offer readers on both sides of the gun control debate." -- Kirkus Reviews (Starred)

"THE WANDERER AND THE NEW WEST sports smart prose, entertaining dialogue and distinctive characters, and it reads at a breakneck pace. ... Adam Bender’s novel is tight, literate pulp." -- IndieReader (Discovery Awards 2019)

"Bender's prose and ability to weave poignancy and humor throughout the story elevates his novel above others in the genre." -- Publishers Weekly BookLife Prize

“A dystopian view of an America that many may well see as a path the country is already headed down ... I couldn't put this book down and read it quickly and easily." — Grant Leishman for Readers’ Favorite (5 Stars)

"The setting is absorbing, pulling in the reader like a captivating movie, and I couldn’t help getting the same feeling I get when I watch the series 'Arrow.' It won’t be surprising if this story ends up on screen." -- Arya Fomonyuy for Readers' Favorite (5 Stars)

"The action is continuous and horrific ... revealing vistas of the future and especially the dangerous paths poor and greed based politics are forcing mankind to follow." -- Deepak Menon for Readers' Favorite (5 Stars)

"Brutally honest and scarily real, The Wanderer and the New West is a brilliant novel. Raw and gritty, this novel lays down the bare truth without sugar coating anything." -- Rabia Tanveer for Readers' Favorite (5 Stars)

"Bender creates vivid characters in the plot that will resonate with any reader ... The author helped me visualize the impact of lawlessness on the media, technology and any nation as a whole." -- Edith Wairimu for Readers' Favorite (5 Stars)

The Wanderer and the New West is a brand-new, stand-alone novel by Adam Bender, an award-winning tech journalist and critically acclaimed author of the We, The Watched dystopian sci-fi series about government surveillance.

From the back cover:

"We live in a time of great individual freedoms. No government can tell us how to live our lives because we are free. In America, we are above the law.

We live in a time of great violence. Rob a bank, steal from a neighbor, murder a man who looks at you funny . . . but do it at your own peril. The people are watching, and we know the difference between right and wrong. Stand your ground, but beware: in America, we make our own justice.

This is THE NEW WEST.

These pages chronicle a people unbound by law — their actions and the consequences. We print only the wildest truth."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Bender
• Release date: Jan 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780992462963

Adam Bender

Adam Bender is an award-winning journalist and author of speculative fiction that explores modern-day societal fears with a mix of action, romance and humor.Bender's latest novel is Utopia PR, a speculative satire about a public-relations specialist who struggles to find work-life balance while managing crisis after crisis for a dystopian American president.Previously, Bender wrote The Wanderer and the New West, a near-future western about a rogue vigilante who seeks redemption in a lawless America that fully protects the rights of armed citizens to stand their ground. Named to Kirkus Reviews' Best Books of 2018, the novel also won gold for Dystopia in the 2018 Readers' Favorite Awards and best Western Fiction in the 2018 National Indie Excellence Awards.Bender authored We, The Watched and Divided We Fall in a dystopian series about an amnesiac who struggles to conform in a surveillance society where the government keeps a Watched list of its own citizens. Also, Bender has published several short stories.In his day job as a journalist, Bender covers telecom and internet regulation for Communications Daily. He has won awards for his reporting from the Society of Professional Journalists, the Specialized Information Publishers Association, and the Society for Advancing Business Editing and Writing.Bender lives in Philadelphia with his wife Mallika and son Rishi. He's usually a rather modest and amiable fellow.Learn more about the author at WatchAdam.blog. Follow him on Facebook (wethewatched) and @WatchAdam on Twitter and Instagram.

Book preview

Dedication

* * *

Dedicated to Gary Zingher for igniting my fervor for action-adventures stories and for encouraging me to spin exciting tales of my own.

Special thanks to my spectacular wife Mallika, who happily reads my unpublished manuscripts and always gives her most honest opinions.

* * *

A MISSION STATEMENT FOR

THE NEW WEST

By New West Reporter

We live in a time of great individual freedoms. No government can tell us how to live our lives because we are free. In America, we are above the law.

We live in a time of great violence. Rob a bank, steal from a neighbor, murder a man who looks at you funny … but do it at your own peril. The people are watching, and we know the difference between right and wrong. Stand your ground, but beware: in America, we make our own justice.

This is THE NEW WEST.

These pages chronicle a people unbound by law — their actions and the consequences. We print only the wildest truth.

CHAPTER ONE

The Parishioners Are Packin’!

The gazes of eighty-three Catholics swung from the priest to the back of the church, where a tall man in a cowboy hat stood with ready hands by his hips. He had dark brown hair and a stubbly chin speckled with salt, but he wore his wide-brimmed hat low and it was hard to make out his features.

Father James Hopkins broke from his sermon and gave the stranger a cold stare. The unknown man gasped somewhat sarcastically and stuck up his palms over the gray Stetson. The motion of his arms lifted his leather jacket high enough to reveal two handguns holstered around his waist — a Lassiter six-shooter on the left and a semiautomatic Breck 17 on the right.

Somewhere in the pews, a small child began to cry.

I don’t mean any trouble, the gunman said. There was a twang to his voice reminiscent of old Western movies.

Father James stole a glance at Ben Martin, who was twisted around like everyone else for a view of the stranger. The back of the sheriff’s neck looked nearly as red as his plaid shirt, contrasting strongly with the gray sticking out the back of his Army hat.

Truly, the gunman continued as he strode down the aisle, I am sorry to interrupt the solemnity of this fine house of God. However, there’s a man I am looking for, and I believe he is here.

Martin bolted upright from his pew. Who do you think you are, coming in here and making demands?

Father James motioned for Martin to take his seat, then held out a welcoming hand to the gunman. My son, why don’t you join us? We can sort out whatever this is about after Mass.

The priest could feel the sheriff’s burning glare. He tried to ignore it, tried to keep his eye contact firmly on the man with the guns.

The stranger dropped his hands and shook his head. I ain’t your son, Father. And I’m afraid this is something that just can’t wait. See, I’m after a monster who done near took a girl’s life. Goes by the name of Tom Jenkins.

Father James tried hard not to look at the teenager sitting in the front row, thinking it might give away the boy’s location. Now, listen here, stranger, I won’t stand by while you make accusations against a member of our community! If he has done something wrong, by God we — and only we — will be the ones to cast judgment!

Beg your pardon, but I don’t trust you will. The gunslinger leaned back on one leg and cast his smile like a dare. His right eye gleamed crimson. For an instant, Father James thought Satan himself might be in the church. Then he noticed the edge of a thin lens above the stranger’s cheek and saw what had made the red glare — an augmented-reality display.

Martin snarled, "I believe I know you, Wanderer."

The suddenness of the conviction left Father James mute. He wasn’t the only one. The townsfolk, whose heads had been bouncing about like bobble-headed baseball stars, zeroed in on the sheriff’s lips. Over the past year, they’d all heard tales of a vigilante called the Wanderer popping up in various places around the West, performing various good deeds such as stopping robberies and dueling with members of the Red Stripe Gang. Father James had thought the Wanderer was just a legend made up to make people feel a little safer.

However, this was almost certainly not the effect the Wanderer was having on Ben Martin. The sheriff pointed accusingly at the gunslinger and sneered. You go from town to town startin’ trouble. I heard you even set a man afire! Now you mean to start trouble right here in this holy place. Martin stood up again, jabbing his finger harder toward the Wanderer. Well, if it’s trouble you want, it’s trouble you’ll get.

*

The Wanderer stroked the warm ebony handle of his Lassiter revolver as the fat man with the rusty sheriff’s badge pulled a double-barrel shotgun out from his seat. It appeared to be a six-year-old Pilgrim of the pump-action variety. Presumably, it had been kept tucked away in the back of a pew, right next to the Book of Psalms.

Neither man budged. A hushed silence filled the church. Then, one by one, the men and women around the church rose to their feet with guns of their own. The majority brandished Breck 17s.

The sudden rise to arms didn’t surprise the Wanderer in the least. He had made Liberty his home for the past week. That was long by the standards of a man who felt most comfortable when he rode the train, but the dusty hamlet had deceived him with its fresh-swept streets and baked bread aromas. Yesterday afternoon, the thought had occurred that here might be a town he could stay for good — a place to stick the screaming past in a coffin and bury it alive. But violence caught up to him, like it always did, and now he knew that the white paint on Liberty’s wooden porches merely disguised the same rot infecting the rest of America.

Leaving his own guns in their holsters, the Wanderer mocked, Well, look at that! The parishioners are packin’!

His cool disdain elicited more than a few confused looks. Finally, the sheriff stepped out into the aisle and stuck his Pilgrim smack in the Wanderer’s face. "Now, look here! The name’s Ben Martin. I’ve lived in this town for more than fifty years, been sheriff for nearly twenty, and I’ll be damned if some outsider thinks he can just come in and shoot up the church! You must be some crazy —"

The Wanderer snatched the end of the shotgun and pushed it straight up to the ceiling. No, he growled, starting a gunfight in a church is crazy. In fact, if you ask your preacher, I’m sure he’d tell you it’s a downright sin.

Taking advantage of the momentary attention, the priest called, Everyone put down your guns! The Lord can stand his own ground!

Martin looked as if he’d just been slapped across the face with a cold fish.

Better do as your preacher says, smirked the Wanderer, releasing the tip of the shotgun.

Flushing an even deeper red, the sheriff let the Pilgrim drop to the floor. With frowns of great futility, most of the other armed men and women followed — all but one shaking teenager in the front row. The Wanderer spoke a single word under his breath: Recognize.

Through his glass eyepiece, an electric green oval closed around the boy’s face. A few seconds later, the message ID CONFIRMED flashed onto the screen.

So, there you are, Jenkins, the Wanderer called, adding a friendly wave. What say we avoid the Lord’s wrath and take this disagreement outside?

According to you, said the teen, shakily raising his semiautomatic, I’m goin’ to Hell already.

A great boom echoed through the sanctuary, but the Wanderer slid neatly into cover behind a pew. Two more errant shots from the boy’s Breck 17 whistled in ricochet off a column behind him.

A bubble of stunned silence burst into a dissonant roar of bellows and shrieks. The Wanderer pushed aside the bottom flap of his jacket with his left hand and took out the Lassiter, but a stampede of panicked churchgoers surging up the aisle blocked his aim. Ben Martin reached down to the sacred floor for his Pilgrim, but another parishioner’s foot collided with the shotgun and sent it clattering away. The crowd pushed the whining sheriff up the aisle and out the door.

Map, directed the Wanderer, and a diagram of the building layout appeared in his view. He saw two exits from the sanctuary — the main entrance behind him and a fire door located near the altar, close to where Jenkins had been sitting. They were connected by a hallway forming the perimeter of the sanctuary. With the crowd surging up the aisle, the main entrance seemed the safer bet, but he still had to find a way to squeeze into the herd.

He was just about to force his way when a big man with a ponytail stopped short and used his broad shoulders to hold back the crowd. People bounced against his back and fell off like a bunch of bowling pins. With a grateful tip of the hat, the Wanderer made his escape. He ran hard down the hallway but couldn’t locate his quarry inside the church. Taking a hard right, he burst through a fire exit into white daylight.

The Wanderer caught just a glimpse of his prey shuffling toward the parking lot, but the sky burned so bright that he had to lower his hat for shade. When the sunspots finally faded, he saw Jenkins spinning around with his gun. In one swift circular motion, the Wanderer brought the silver Lassiter from his hip to point at Jenkins’s chest.

*

A flagpole hoisted Old Glory between the two red-roofed bell towers of the Church of Santa Maria. Martin was catching his breath in front of the former mission’s blue gates when two shots rang out. He waddled quickly toward the parking lot, passing Gerard Breck’s smirking headshot on a banner announcing the Breck Ammunition traveling gun show. The congregation followed closely behind.

The sheriff found the Wanderer kneeling by a red pickup truck, head down as if he was in prayer. Tom Jenkins lay dead at the gunslinger’s feet, surprise plastered on his young face.

Everyone get back! called Father James, circling around the herd.

Ben Martin stepped up to the preacher and pointed accusingly at the Wanderer. He killed him! Just like that, he killed him!

The gunman snatched the young corpse by the collar and folded him over the side of the truck’s flatbed. Martin yelled, How can you do this? He was just a boy!

The Wanderer didn’t even look up. "A piglet’s still a damned pig, isn’t he?"

You’re … you’re under arrest!

Heh. Under whose authority?

Martin hesitated. He didn’t have the fitness to take down a man like the Wanderer by himself. Turning around, he could see he didn’t have support from the townsfolk, either. It was like there was an electric fence preventing them from getting anywhere close to the rogue.

It was self-defense! shouted one of the parishioners — Martin traced the voice to Jackson Veras. Tom shot first!

Martin got up so close in Jackson’s face, actual droplets of spit materialized on the man’s glasses when the sheriff yelled. Who are you? His lawyer?

Don’t start with me, Martin, sneered Jackson, stabbing the sheriff with his finger. I’ve never seen this man before, either. But you know what I did see?

What?

A cowardly sheriff pointing a shotgun, and an honorable man protecting himself.

An honorable man? Martin pointed at the gunman. Him?

The Wanderer pushed the corpse of Tom Jenkins the rest of the way into the truck and, with the slightest of smiles, wiped the blood off his hands using a piece of the dead boy’s shirt. It was all Martin could take. The sheriff charged, but Jackson got a grip around his waist and held him back, strong and tightly.

Come, sheriff, wheedled Father James, approaching with one hand extended. Come back into the church so we may finish the Mass. Let the bounty hunter finish what he —

Hey! snapped the Wanderer. I ain’t no bounty hunter!

Everyone shut up. A hot breeze sent a cloud of dust crackling into the bumper of the parked cars.

There’s a girl in the hospital named Sara Heller, he continued. "She was near death last night on account of this pig Jenkins, and if she remembers anything about last night, she just might wish she was dead. Sara’s got a sister named Sharon keeping vigil by her bedside. You can ask her what Jenkins did, if you don’t believe me, but don’t forget to tell her what I done to that hog."

He spat into the flatbed, adding a wet exclamation point to the speech. The Wanderer turned his back on the parishioners and walked toward the sun.

Hey! called Martin, making a renewed push against the arms of Jackson Veras. Where do you think you’re going?

The Wanderer took a few more steps and called back, without turning, Wherever the track leads.

CHAPTER TWO

Was He Justified?

Rosa hovered over the keyboard with the intensity of a bull getting ready to charge. She was working on an infographic, a map of the state of Arizona. She had geographically plotted different-sized circles to represent the number of gun deaths in the past year. They had ballooned in the two cities in the lower half of the state, which was understandable given that they were population centers. In small towns, however, the number of town deaths didn’t proportionally follow population. That was because the small towns with the biggest circles had experienced mass shootings in the last year. All involved the Yossarian assault rifle, a fully automatic weapon that could wipe out a crowd of people in under a minute. The one outlier seemed to be Union — a lot of deaths this year, but Rosa didn’t remember any major shootings reported.

She scrunched her eyes and, after a moment, snapped her fingers. Of course! The Red Stripe Gang had taken Union. It might as well be a black hole now, at least where any news was concerned.

The Gang had taken over several towns around the country, using them as bases after committing robberies and other crimes. The Red Stripers were named for their flag: an American flag without the blue square of stars — just thirteen red-and-white stripes. The Gang had started as a giant coalition of America’s most dangerous motorcycle gangs, loosely held together by a belief in organized greed and debauchery. They had a predilection for drugs, gambling, violence, and motorcycles. The members were predominately white men — though there were some women, too — and many had ties to the neo-Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan. The Gang also attracted closet psychopaths who’d never done a bad thing when there’d been adequate law enforcement, but who now felt free to act their true selves. The Gang was large, organized, and attracted the worst elements of America — and no one seemed to have the cojones to do anything about them.

The reporter felt least confident about her data for the mountainous regions in northern Arizona, which showed very few gun deaths. Lower population, of course, but the numbers still seemed small. She wondered if it might come down to a limitation with her data — the fact that she only had information on reported gun deaths. With fewer witnesses and a wide-open wilderness for killers to hide bodies, perhaps many casualties went unreported.

In the end, though, it didn’t really matter if she counted every single fatal shooting in the state. She had another map, exactly the same, but it was for the full year before Congress overturned the National Firearms Act and legalized sale of fully automatic rifles such as the Yossarian to consumers. There were still plenty of gun deaths, of course, but the circles looked like dots by comparison. That was the real story right there — all the deaths skyrocketing after the legalization of the fully automatic rifle.

The doorbell chimed. Rosa cursed. The real world had once more invaded her solitude. She was sitting in her home office, originally the second bedroom. It was a one-story rancher, which meant that she could get to the door in seconds, but she didn’t want to get up. Instead, she held her typing position, willing whoever was at the door to go away.

The visitor pounded. The reporter glanced at a small pot of dying basil on the windowsill. She visualized the words she’d spent hours cultivating wither away like the brown leaves of the herb.

Hey, c’mon, Rosie! Open up!

It was Jackson. Still, she hesitated …

"It’s for The New West!"

That got her. She popped up from her chair and sprinted to the door. What do you have? she asked her brother, adding a hug as if an afterthought.

With a sly smile, he bounced past her into the ranch house and onto her sofa. He was still wearing his church clothes: a short-sleeved button-down and an ill-fitting pair of blue slacks. Even though he was now a father in his thirties — not to mention a lawyer, for God’s sake — Jackson still looked as uncomfortable in nice clothes as he had when he’d been younger. Then there was his black mane. Even tied back into a ponytail, it was longer than her own shoulder-length haircut. Combined with the round glasses on his face, he was starting to look a lot like a hippy.

How comes the writing of the great journalist, Rosa Veras? he asked.

He was the only other person who knew about The New West. For some reason, she was deathly afraid of people finding out she was writing it, so she had been posting anonymously. It wasn’t that she feared controversy. The whole point was to get away from the cut-and-paste journalism of her peers. But there was her day job to think about. She worked remotely for Our Times, the national newspaper based in Vegas. It was owned by Breck Ammunition, and as a result didn’t actually publish much in the way of real news, at least not the kind of hard-hitting stuff that she wanted to write. But while she might not enjoy producing fluff pieces, that’s where the money was, and she had to make a living somehow.

I was on a roll until you showed up, she told Jack. You shouldn’t lie about having a lead —

There was a shooting at church! he blurted.

Rosa stared wide-eyed at her brother. He looked okay — almost pleased. Sweeping a stack of takeout menus off the wooden coffee table by his knees, she picked up her tablet and created a new page in her notebook. Are you all right? Tell me everything.

As he told her about the Wanderer and the confrontation with Tom Jenkins, Rosa began to picture a tall drink of water with a sombrero, stirrups, and a big silver gun. She checked the description with her brother.

Not a sombrero, Jack corrected. What’s the hat the white cowboys always wear in the movies?

A Stetson?

Isn’t that like a shoe?

No, stupid, that’s a stiletto.

He seemed to think on that. Stetson. Sure, maybe. Oh, and he had a glass over one eye — might’ve been AR!

She raised her eyebrows. Augmented reality seemed like pretty expensive tech for your average gunman. Clearly, this Wanderer guy had found his way into some money. Maybe he’d held up a stagecoach.

What’s so funny?

Nothing, she said. Wait, hold on, Jack. How were you close enough to see his eyes?

Her brother eyed his shoes. It was an expression of guilt that he used to wear for their parents after forgetting to do his chores. When everybody started running out of the building, the Wanderer was trapped. So, I … stopped to let him out.

Rosa blinked in disbelief. "Wait, you helped the gunman? After what happened to —? She covered her mouth, but the wounded look on his face showed the damage had been done. She rushed forward to hug him. I’m sorry, Jack, but … that was dangerous! I just … don’t want to lose you, too."

He smiled weakly. I know. It was just … there was something different about the Wanderer. He didn’t just burst into the church shooting. He told everyone why he was there, who he had come for, and he didn’t even take out his gun until Jenkins started firing. He held steady even after Ben Martin got all riled up! I mean, Jesus, anyone else would have shot that fat bastard.

She breathed thoughtfully. Ben means well.

Jack rolled his eyes. He’d had a grudge against Ben Martin since they were kids and the sheriff came to arrest their father. Dad went to state prison with a life sentence, and they hadn’t seen him in years. Their father was a passionate sports gambler who’d lost his head after losing a bet on the Super Bowl. A fistfight ended in a gun duel. He’d won the standoff, but lost everything else.

Rosa had come to believe her dad deserved the sentence, but Jack never doubted his innocence, always insisting that there had to be more to the story. She guessed that was a big reason that her brother began to practice law. The irony, of course, was that the very crime their father was imprisoned for had become commonplace in America. It just wasn’t the kind of thing for which people got in trouble anymore. At the same time, there was no movement to retroactively exonerate the incarcerated.

After Dad went to prison, their mom tried to raise them on her own. But she soon turned to the bottle for company. Ben Martin began stopping by every few days to check in on them, usually with a greasy bag full of hamburgers and fries clutched between his fingers. He wasn’t very good with kids, and Rosa assumed he was coming by mostly out of guilt. Jack resented him, but she’d always given him credit for trying.

Look, Jack, I know how you feel about Martin, but why would you take the side of a lawless man? Aren’t you supposed to be an attorney?

The glass of Jack’s circular frames magnified his eyes. "Yeah, that’s right. A defense attorney."

She raised her eyebrows. And here I thought Jenkins was the accused.

A little red entered his cheeks as he grinned. Hey, can’t a lawyer choose his cases?

She laughed and turned to her tablet, tapping the stylus against the glass of the device as she read her notes. Rosa could swear she had talked to Tom Jenkins once for a story in Our Times, but for the life of her couldn’t remember what it was about. Baseball, maybe? She knew he was still in high school. Rosa recalled slightly more about the Hellers, having written a piece earlier in the year about student council elections. Sharon was class president. Sara was popular, too, but only because she was blonde and bland.

Rosa asked, So did this Wanderer say where he planned to wander next?

No, but if he’s smart, he’ll leave Liberty. Didn’t see a car …

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Maybe he had a horse?

Steady! he replied with a grin. Seriously, though, I bet he was headed for the train. But that was an hour ago — he’s probably long gone.

*

The doorbell of the mayor’s mansion responded to Martin’s touch with the opening notes to You’re a Grand Old Flag. After a few thumps of his foot against the floorboards of the great white porch, he paced away from the west-facing entrance and looked out at the desert. The arid view offered a harsh contrast to Mayor Alex White’s lush lawn.

The door clicked open — Martin swiveled around to face a butler in a dark brown suit. He had an arch to his gray eyebrows that gave him a look of permanent surprise. Sheriff? To what do we owe the pleasure?

I need to see the mayor. Now.

The mayor is engaged in a state legislature meeting, but if you don’t mind waiting—

No, now. Tell him it’s important.

Martin remembered a time when a mayor would have nothing to do with the state legislature. But that was before White and his ilk got voted into local, state, and federal offices around the country. The Born-Again Patriots’ platforms against Big Government had turned into a large-scale consolidation making many traditional political positions redundant. In White’s home state of Arizona, the group had eliminated traditional state lawmakers, giving mayors the additional responsibility of casting votes on the legislature.

The butler beckoned the sheriff inside and went to inquire after his employer. Martin removed his Army hat and tapped it against his thigh. His matted gray hair glistened with sweat as he gaped at the large entrance area. The floor was pure white tile with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Thomas Jefferson hung smugly on one wall, while a war scene with muskets was carried out on the other.

Nice foy-er, muttered Martin, pronouncing the word like a true American. He pulled a flask from inside his police jacket and had a quick swig of whiskey.

The butler called from upstairs, The mayor will see you now.

At first, Martin took the steps two at a time, but soon, he began to wheeze and had to slow down. After a long slog, he made it to the top and followed the butler into a large study.

Sheriff! exclaimed Mayor White with a youthful enthusiasm that belied his shiny bald head. Congenially, he slapped the policeman on the back.

Martin looked past the mayor to a webcam and large TV on the opposite wall. The screen displayed a woman in a suit giving a speech, bordered by a rectangle of interested faces — other members of the state legislature, he assumed. Martin watched the bright red lips of the lady rep move but couldn’t hear what she was saying. A bright green MUTE in the bottom-right corner explained why.

I didn’t mean to interrupt, apologized the sheriff, shuffling sideways to avoid the webcam’s blank gaze.

Apparently befuddled by this behavior, White turned to see what Martin was looking at. Oh! Don’t worry about that gal. I have the microphone off. I don’t have to speak for another thirty minutes or so.

But can’t they see … ?

The politician grinned broadly. That’s the clever part! Keep this under your hat, but a few weeks ago I recorded a video of myself listening attentively. It loops every five minutes. You know, these meetings are such a bore — I just had to do it.

Martin wasn’t sure how to respond.

What? I’m not the only one, believe you me! White pointed to one of the static faces on the border of the screen and began to circle his finger around the screen. Fake … fake … fake … mmm, not sure, but probably fake … fake …

Martin did believe him. Ignorance and arrogance seemed to be the way of all these Born-Again Patriots who’d let the law slip away in America. All talk and no listening — not even to each other. When they’d finished overhauling states and localities, the Born-Again Patriots had eliminated the entire national government, including the president, congress, and federal court system. All power moved to the states, and, for the most part, they now acted independently from one another. To maintain some small level of coordination, governors occasionally held conferences in the neutral territory of Washington, D.C., but this was mostly for appearances. It had been a long time since anyone referred to America as the United States.

Mayor White fell back into his chair and waved the sheriff to sit down on the other side of the desk. So, what’s new? Oh! Actually, I’m glad you’re here. You see, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. A few of the constituents have reported seeing you going in and out of the old police station. You’re not still living there, are you?

Martin gaped in response. He had explained this to the mayor several times before, but it was like talking to a brick wall. After White slashed the law enforcement budget five years ago, Martin had been forced to close the station and lay off his entire police force. Ben held on to his title of sheriff — someone had to — but they expected him to work from home with a reduced salary. The problem was he didn’t have a home anymore, not since the missus had kicked him out.

Not that he really expected White to understand. These damn Born-Again Patriots had come almost entirely from the private sector — guns, oil, telecommunications, and so on — and once they took over the government, the first thing the businessmen did was lay off everyone. All of a sudden, there didn’t seem to be any public money left for anything, even law enforcement. The new politicians argued that the private sector could provide security. If you couldn’t afford to hire someone, you could get a gun and protect yourself.

Martin felt a catch in his throat as he replied. The station is all I have left.

The mayor’s bald head twisted reproachfully. The movement reminded Martin of a vulture. Now, Ben, you’re a town hero and everyone appreciates what you did at that Walmart, but you can’t just —

Mayor, another lunatic showed up at my church today! He shot a boy!

White